


Cautionary Tail

by frogfarm



Series: Buffy Etcetera: (Shorts) By Request [16]
Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV)
Genre: Ficathon, Gen, Organized Crime
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-11-30
Updated: 2007-11-30
Packaged: 2019-01-30 06:43:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12648240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frogfarm/pseuds/frogfarm
Summary: Take it from one who's been there.





	Cautionary Tail

**Author's Note:**

> For the [My Fair Faith](https://facets-of-faith.livejournal.com/150417.html?nojs=1) ficathon.
> 
> Prompt: Ambassador's ball

As new kid in town, lowest on the totem, Yonny takes more than enough shit for his name alone. Unimposing appearance is another strike against him, from boyish good looks to a deceptively slight build. Top it off with lack of seniority, and the credentials that gave him a foot in the door are pretty much worthless. The rest of the ambassador's team are friendly enough -- in their own way -- but until he clocks more hours, or proves himself in some spectacular fashion, this mother's son gets to look good in a tux, cool his heels at the buffet table and try not to get in the way.

Also, he feels half-naked without a sidearm, forbidden until he clears the intensive background check. Not that his barehand skills are lacking. And nothing can stop a clusterfuck whose time has time. Still, it's always better to be prepared.

His practiced sniper's eye slides over the milling throng of crushed velvet and silk. A single one of these evening gowns could feed his family for a year, maybe his entire village; the suit he wears alone, custom tailored with room to move, wouldn't last five minutes in his old neighborhood until someone planted a knife in its owner and speedily stripped it from the corpse. For all its opulence, his ornate surroundings appear no more safe or inviting, its inhabitants no less predatory in their smiles and nods. Give him a real woman, not one of these trophy wives or gold-digging mistresses. Some big titted Georgian girl, or a sweet senorita if he ever makes it that far west, who loves kids and cooking and doesn't ask questions about how her man might have earned such a lavish, early retirement.

Yonny knows his dream will come true. Because he is willing to act, not wish and hope that things will improve. Stubborn past the point of self-preservation, and more than willing to suffer in pursuit of a larger goal.

As if the universe read his mind, a stunning brunette fills his field of vision. Much like the way her equally stunning breasts fill her off the shoulder dress, Except his eyes are being inextricably drawn away; following long black gloves that ascend nearly to her shoulders, pale skin over strong muscle, dark hair piled high in curls Greek-style. Whereas the others are fully decked out with diamonds galore, the only jewelry she sports is a tasteful gold cross dangling from a slim chain about her neck.

He averts his gaze, a moment too late.

"Don't mind me," she chuckles. "Just checkin' out the spread."

American, by the accent. Yonny spot-checks the room before returning some part of his attention to her. She actually looks uncomfortable, like she's not used to maintaining good posture. Maybe her usual is more horizontal.

He can't help it. "Is this your first?"

"Hardly." Her fingers dance over the canapes, coming to rest on a target before daintily popping it in her mouth. "This year's at least eight."

Yonny raises a brow. "At least?"

"You know how it is," she shrugs. "Up and comin' gal. Gotta get out there and learn the ropes."

"You sound bitter." Yonny nods briefly to the ambassador's personal guard, as the man passes by. He doesn't even know the guy's name yet.

"More of a realist." She flashes a killer smile. "And right now, I really need to pee."

He doesn't think twice, and that more than anything proves his undoing. Though his sponsor doesn't even blink when he asks permission to leave the floor, briefly leering at his escort before dismissing him without a backward glance. Yonny stands outside, gazing back down the hall at the closed double doors of the ballroom, when what sounds like a swear word echoes from inside.

He pays no attention, until she sticks her head out.

"Gimme a hand with this?"

He shakes his head. "Sorry. You're on your own."

She cocks her head, skeptical and oddly pleased. "You sure?"

He hesitates the barest of seconds.

"Perhaps, some other time. But --"

"It's your first day."

He blinks. "How --"

"I'm sorry too."

A crunch of pain, before the blackness.

 

  


* * *

  


 

Yonny's first clear thought, as consciousness slowly returns, is that he may have gone blind. The next is that he's tied up, ankles to wrists, on his side in a half-fetal position.

"You shouldn't be awake."

_Balvan!_ he nearly spits aloud. He should have his head examined, falling for a pretty face again. Her voice is completely different now, cold and calculating.

He strains, swallowing a grunt of effort as he tests the bonds. To her credit, they fail to budge.

"Who are you?" He sounds good. Cautious, but not weak. Never mind his tongue turning dry in his mouth, heart threatening to go hyperstolic.

"You can call me Eliza." More than a hint of smirk. "Just don't call me late for dinner."

He stretches his fingers, keeping his breathing steady, reaching for the knife at his left ankle; swallowing another curse, as he discovers its absence. The material digging into his flesh feels like hard plastic, like the one-time ziptie handcuffs he had to fight in and escape from on his first day of Spetsnaz training. Yonny had lasted less than a month in the camp before taking off in the dead of night, knowing the first place they'd look would be his hometown. But that way only led back down.

He was moving up.

Until now.

"What do you want?" He tries not to sound desperate. His eyes are adjusting to the darkness, and he can make out a dim line of light along the floor. Probably they're in the utility closet, just down the hall.

"Good question. Long answer."

"What are you?" A thousand thoughts take flight. "CIA?"

Another chuckle, less bitter.

"As if." She turns abruptly serious once more. "Look -- I gotta go kill your boss. Nothin' personal."

A burst of energy surges through him. He doesn't realize he's madly struggling until she grabs his collar, lifts and slams him against the wall with chilling ease.

"You wanna die in this closet? Keep that shit up."

"Do I have a choice?" His ears are ringing from the impact; Yonny's taken hits from men twice his size, fought over a dozen and been the only one left standing, yet there's no question in his mind this is a grip that could grind his bones to powder. It's completely beyond his experience, and that frightens him more than the prospect of imminent death.

Or failure.

"You're an okay guy." She overrides his protest, words pushing against his burning face like blunt instruments. "You might not think so -- but I did my homework. Compared to the rest of these chumps? You're a regular Boy Scout."

He can't help a sarcastic snort. "You going to give me a medal?"

She leans in, close enough for a headbutt. Except her grip is tightening at his throat and it feels like she's not even breaking a sweat.

"I'm givin' you the chance to stay that way."

His head whirls, as he tries to make sense of it all. "What do you want from me?"

She throws him back down, stands up in one quick movement.

"Just sit tight." A note of final fatality. "Won't take long."

His fingers are already skimming the floor as she shuts the door, searching for a pin to shove into the restraining collar on the cuffs. But he freezes at the sound of screaming; eyes bulging from their sockets as animal roars are drowned in smashing glass, choked into wet nothingness. Yonny lies there, praying in silence, until the police break down the door the following morning.

His lack of passport and status as sole survivor results in hours of grilling in broken Polish, Russian and English, and they keep giving him coffee until he's ready to jitterbug through the ceiling. He's thinking they're on the verge of deporting him, when the steely-eyed sergeant checks his email, shrugs, and orders him released.

Yonny still dreams of Mexico.

And the girl who was death.


End file.
